Everyone around me is talking about the events of yesterday. Once again England went into the World Cup talking a fantastic victory, but ultimately playing a weak game of defence and let’s just try lobbing the ball to Rooney and see if that gets us a goal. I admit that I know very little about football… I know the offside rule (something that impresses the mailroom boys) but I don’t really understand it, and to be honest I don’t really want to. I love to watch the odd football match, but I like to retain a little distance from the world’s most loved sport… yeah swallow it USA, the world’s most loved sport is FOOTBALL and NOT American Football (we don’t call it Soccer around here!). Maybe I do it because I realize that when I do get into a game I stop being a lady and I become a regular English football thug, hurling obscenities at the players and the ref.
In previous years I have reserved these obscenities for the players of the opposing team, but in this World Cup my shouts of dismay and “come on run you f*@king lazy mother @$*%ers” were only for the my home team… the losers we love to refer to as England. In the preliminary rounds I quietly hoped that playing like losers was one of Sven’s legendary tactics to put the other ‘better’ teams off their guard and that by the Semi’s we would be pulling out the guns and kicking some serious ass… preferably the French. But time and time again I was disappointed. England played like a bunch of old, tired, losers, and it pains my heart to say it out-loud, but sadly it is true. I totally felt the pain of the overly excited 18 year olds who were on their year out in Israel, and had found their way into our bar to watch their home team win… and ended up walking away silently to a losers march.
GB: You guys didn’t deserve to go forward. You stunk the whole way
Me: Gee thanks… and here was I thinking you were going to make me feel better…
After our loss the girls decided to go get some food to soak up the alcohol and go back to the normality of talking about our jobs, our love lives, and our bowel movements. On the way, while singing along to the JSAP’s collection of car tunes including the Pussy Cat Dolls… “Don’t you wish your girlfriend was hot like me…” we drove passed an American work friend and I made the JSAP stop the car… “England sucked ass!!!”… ok driver, drive on.
My Thursday nights have become the highlight of my week. Being a girl that always preferred to hang out with the boys, I have developed over the last few months a real appreciation for hanging out with the girls and behaving scandalously as only girls know how. A few of the girls had made a pact that they were going to either add a new kiss to their snog list, or were just going to scout for men. I apparently had to choose my option before we reached the bar. I politely declined.
I guess the urge to meet someone has passed me by. Maybe it is all the frogs and losers that I have already kissed over the last year or two, but I think that the bar hop and snog routine always ends in disaster, disappointment, and a disgraceful hangover. Then there are the dates, which I find to be as much fun as attending an interview with a vampire. You have to sit through all the questions and coffee and then you are never sure if he is going to try and suck your face off or not. I have talked about the dating thing before… so you should be of full understanding of my lack of joy over dating. I generally prefer to do the friend thing and see how it develops from there. But, every now and then I will make an exception, and let a guy take me out for a coffee. Problem is when you think you just are not sure if it is two friends having coffee or a date. And worse when after the second time you hang out you realise that you actually wish it had been a date and ended appropriately, as opposed to you walking home and doing the “what was that?” and “what are we?” , thing.
My father sometimes tells me that I am a boy in the body of a woman. My brother used to tell me I was so cool because hanging out with me was like hanging out with one of the guys. My brother’s friends said that they liked me because if they lost my brother they had a spare… I am mini bro. My guy friends and their friends on first impression all stated that I was “a really cool girl… chilled and easy to hang out with.” During university my girlfriends would laugh with somewhat admiration at how I managed to become best friends with the most sought after and eligible guys. So I guess if the label fits I should wear it.
JSAP: Dude he clearly likes you as a person.
Me: I don’t need or want another guy friend… I am forever ‘a guy’s best friend’
JSAP: Ha ha ha Man’s best friend
Me: Does that make me a dog?
Plus I am not sure that I am happy having Atheist Singles website advertising on my blog…